The White Desert Part 9

Ba'tiste," he called softly, "what kind of an operator is this fellow?"

"No good. A boy. Just out of school. Hasn't been here long."

"That explains it." Houston was talking to himself again. "He got the two messages and--" Suddenly he bent forward and examined a notation in a strange hand:

"Missent Houston. Resent Blackburn."

It explained much to Barry Houston, that scribble of four words. It told him why he had received a telegram which meant nothing to him, yet caused suspicion enough for a two-thousand-mile trip. It explained that the operator, in sending two messages, had, through absent-mindedness, put them both on the wire to the same person, when they were addressed separately, that he later had seen his mistake and corrected it. Barry smiled grimly.

"Thanks very much, Operator," he murmured. "It isn't every mistake that turns out this lucky."

Then slowly, studiously, he compared the messages again, the one he had received, and the one on the hook which read:

J. C. Blackburn, Deal Building, Chicago, Ill.

Our friend reports Boston deal put over O. K. Everything safe.

Suggest start preparations for operations in time compete Boston for the big thing. Have Boston where we want him and will keep him there.

THAYER.

It was the same telegram that Barry Houston had received and puzzled over in Boston, except for the address. He had been right then; the message had not been for him; instead it had been intended decidedly _not_ for him and it meant--what? Hastily Houston crawled over the railing, and motioning to Ba'tiste, led him away from the station.

Around the corner of the last store he brought forth his telegram and placed it in the big man's hands.

"That's addressed to me,--but it should have gone to some one else.

Who's J. C. Blackburn of Chicago?"

"Ba'teese don't know. Try fin' out. Why?"

"Have you read that message?"

The giant traced out the words, almost indecipherable in places from creasing and handling. He looked up sharply.

"Boston? You came from Boston?"

"Yes. That must refer to me. It must mean what I've been suspecting all along,--that Thayer's been running my mill down, to help along some compet.i.tor. You'll notice that he says he has me where he wants me."

"_Oui_--yes. But has he? What was the deal?"

"I don't know. I haven't been in any deal that I know of, yet he must refer to me. I haven't any idea what he means by the reference to starting operations, or that sentence about the 'big thing.' There isn't another mill around here?"

"None nearer than the Moscript place at Echo Lake."

"Then what can it be?" Suddenly Houston frowned with presentiment.

"Thayer's been going with Medaine a good deal, hasn't he?"

"_Oui_--yes. When Ba'teese can think of no way to keep him from it."

"It couldn't be that he's made some arrangement with her--about her forest lands?"

"They are not hers yet. She does not come into them until she is twenty-one."

"But they are available then?"

"_Oui_. And they are as good as yours."

"Practically the same thing, aren't they? How much of the lake does she own?"

"The east quarter, and the forests that front on eet, and the east bank of Hawk Creek."

"Then there would be opportunity for everything, for skidways into the lake, a flume on her side and a mill. That must be--"

"Ba'teese would have hear of eet."

"Surely. But Thayer might have--"

"Ba'teese would have hear of eet," came the repet.i.tion. "No, eet is something else. She would have ask Ba'teese and Ba'teese would have said, 'No. Take nothing and give nothing. _M'sieu_ Thayer, he is no good.' So eet is not that. You know the way back? _Bon_--good. Go to the cabin. Ba'teese will try to learn who eet is, this Blackburn."

They parted, Ba'teese to lounge back into the tiny town, Houston to take the winding road which led back to the cabin. A pretty road it was, too, one which trailed along beside the stream, now clear with that sharp brilliancy which is characteristic of the mountain creek, a road fringed with whispering aspens, bright green in their new foliage, with small spruce and pine. Here and there a few flowers showed; by the side of the road the wild roses peeped up from the denser growths of foliage, and a vagrant b.u.t.terfly or so made the round of blossom after blossom. It was spring-summer down here, sharp contrast indeed to the winter which lurked above and which would not fade until June had far progressed. But with it all, its beauty, its serenity, its peace and soft moistness, Houston noticed it but slightly. His thoughts were on other things: on Thayer and his duplicity, on the possibilities of the future, and the methods of combating a business enemy he felt sure was lurking in the background.

It meant more to Houston than the mere monetary value of a loss,--should a loss come. Back in the family burying ground in Boston was a mound that was fresher than others, a mound which s.h.i.+elded the form of a man who had died in disappointment, leaving behind an edict which his son had sworn to carry through to its fulfillment. Now there were obstacles, and ones which were s.h.i.+elded by the darkness of connivance and scheming. The outlook was not promising. Yet even in its foreboding, there was consolation.

"I at least know Thayer's a crook. I can fire him and run the mill myself," Barry was murmuring to himself, as he plodded along. "There may be others; I can weed them out. At least saws won't be breaking every two weeks and lumber won't warp for lack of proper handling.

Maybe I can get somebody back East to look after the office there and--"

He ceased his soliloquy as he glanced ahead and noticed the trim figure of Medaine Robinette swinging along the road, old Lost Wing, as usual, trailing in her rear, astride a calico pony and leading the saddle horse which she evidently had become tired of riding. A small switch was in one hand, and she flipped it at the new leaves of the aspens and the broad-leafed mullens beside the road. As yet, she had not seen him, and Barry hurried toward her, jamming his cap into a pocket that his hand might be free to greet her. He waved airily as they came closer and called. But if she heard him, she gave no indication.

Instead, she turned--swiftly, Houston thought--and mounted her horse.

A moment later, she trotted past him, and again he greeted her, to be answered by a nod and a slight movement of the lips. But the eyes had been averted. Barry could see that the thinnest veneer of politeness had s.h.i.+elded something else as she spoke to him,--an expression of distaste, of dislike, almost loathing!

CHAPTER VII

"Why?"

Barry Houston could not answer the self-imposed question. He could only stand and stare after her and the trotting, rolling Indian, as they moved down the road and disappeared in the shadow of the aspens at the next curve. She had seen him; there could be no doubt of that.

She had recognized him; more, Houston felt sure that she had mounted her horse that she might better be able to pa.s.s him and greet him with a formal nod instead of a more friendly acknowledgment. And this was the girl who, an afternoon before, had sat beside him on the worn old bench at the side of Ba'tiste's cabin and picked thorns from the palm of his hand,--thorns from the stems of wild roses which she had brought him! The enigma was too great for Houston. He could only gasp with the suddenness of it and sink back into a dullness of outlook and viewpoint which he had lost momentarily. It was thus that old friends had pa.s.sed him by in Boston; it was thus that men who had been glad to borrow money from him in other days had looked the other way when the clouds had come. A strange chill went over him.

"Thayer's told her!"

He spoke the sentence like a man repeating the words of an execution.

His features suddenly had grown haggard. He stumbled slightly as he made the next rise in the road and went on slowly, silently, toward the cabin.

There Ba'tiste found him, slumped on the bench, staring out at the white and rose pinks of Mount Taluchen, yet seeing none of it. The big man boomed a greeting, and Barry, striving for a smile, answered him.

The Canadian turned to his wolf-dog.

"_Peuff_! Golemar! Loneliness sits badly upon our friend. He is homesick. Trot over the hill and bring to him the pet.i.te Medaine! Ah _oui_," he laughed in immense enjoyment at his raillery, "bring to him the pet.i.te Medaine to make him laugh and be happy." Then, seeing that the man was struggling vainly for a semblance of cheeriness, he slid beside him on the bench and tousled his hair with one big hand. "Nev'